


Words On Your Skin

by Simurgh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simurgh/pseuds/Simurgh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers lives his life believing he doesn't have a soulmate, but wishing he had one.<br/>Tony Stark lives his life knowing he has a soulmate, but wishing he didn't have one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words On Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> So, since this is my first finished story and since I am not a native speaker, constructive criticism is very welcome. But please, be gentle :D
> 
> Based on this great soulmate idea: http://let-gavin-free.tumblr.com/post/117673589548/soulmate-au-where-when-you-write-something-on-your

Tony is thirteen when it happens for the first time.

He's looking over the assignment he's supposed to hand in tomorrow and so far hadn't bothered to work on. But since he really does want to get this degree he finally sits down to do it.

There's a slight itch on his arm, almost a tickle, on the inside of his elbow. He's scratching it, not wasting much thought on it. When it doesn't go away after a while, he looks down at his arm.

And freezes.

There, on his scratched red skin is an intricate pattern, weaving and waving, getting bigger and bigger.

Tony races into his bedroom to pull on a jumper, pulling the sleeves over the pattern, hiding it under the cloth and trying to ignore it.

He's not the one who put that color on his skin, but he's still terrified what will happen if his father finds out.

 

He's three when his father tells him to stop getting the fucking color all over himself. He's not supposed to get dirty and besides, don't even start with drawing on your skin, you hear me, Tony? That'll only become a problem when you get older and you don't let some random fucking idiot have any part in your life and in your thoughts. You’re a damn Stark, your brain is your only worth, don't you dare give some dumb runaway punk any idea of what you think about.

Don't you dare, Tony, don't you ever dare to write on your skin.

 

Tony ignores the random doodles and notes that appear on his skin after that day. 

He never writes on his skin.

But sometimes when he just feels so cold and doesn't want to do anything more than hide from the world he inspects his skin for anything written on it.

If he doesn't find anything he pretends he's not disappointed and is happy that no one has written anything.

But if he does find something, he presses his hand against it and holds on tight.

 

Steve likes to think of himself as a confident, self-sufficient person, with both feet planted firmly on the ground, diligent and resourceful.

Bucky likes to point out that he's a drama queen who doesn't know when to step down and when to accept help, who likes to step on toes and stick his damn nose in places he doesn't have any business sticking it into.

But Bucky is an idiot, so Steve knows which one of them is right.

So, considering what he knows to be true about himself, he knows that he is not prone to become maudlin about his lack of a soulmate. It's not unheard of, it's not even overly rare. And since he's such a rational person, he might have dreamed silly dreams when he was a kid, but had grown out of them, especially after no marks ever graced his skin after he hit puberty.

He might have been a tad disappointed, he's big enough - shut up, Bucky - to admit that. But he's been over that years ago.

He doesn't go into dramatics.

Not at all.

 

It's a Bad Day.

It should be a great day, a day to remember, a day do celebrate.

It's his damn graduation. Summa cum laude. At seventeen. You would think there could be no parents who wouldn't be proud of him.

You probably hadn't met his parents yet.

His mother, too preoccupied with her numerous charities and her big heart and her concern for everyone but her own son.

And his father.

The less said about the man, the better.

Not even Jarvis has been there. It wasn't his fault, he's fallen ill and hasn't recovered yet. Jarvis called though, and they talked, and that was alright, that was great even. He's had a great two hours talking to him, forgetting all the disappointment of the day, except for the slight ache that he couldn't sit across from Jarvis while talking to him.

But Jarvis cares, Tony knows that. And that was more than he can say about any of his actual family.

He's had a few good hours with the Rhodes' as well. Rhodey had him come over and they've all been awesome.

But he knew that he is an outsider. They aren't his family and he didn't want to interrupt the celebration any more than he already had.

He excused himself, telling some bullshit to Rhodey's mum - not the man himself, he would have seen through it before Tony could have finished talking - and went on his way home.

Where he decided to get incredibly drunk.

Sitting between papers and notes and bottles he looks around. This is his celebration, his graduation day. If you ignore the poor quality of furniture, of the alcohol and anything else - except the notes and equations - it is terrifyingly like his father's workshop.

A pen peeks out from under one of the note pads. Tony takes it, twirling it around his fingers.

He carefully sets it down on his skin, scared and exhilarated at the same time.

Then, for the first time in his life, he scribbles a note on his own skin.

_I don't want to be like him._

 

Steve is sitting on his beat up sofa, sketching. He's supposed to work on an assignment that is due next week, but no matter what he tries, whenever he sits in front of the canvas, his mind draws blank. No spark, no idea, no nothing.

Before he lets his brain go to mush, his time is much better spend working on the things he's actually feeling motivated to do.

At the moment he sketches figures of Natasha and Clint bickering.

He's so engrossed that it takes him a moment, do notice the insistent itching on his arm.

He pulls his sleeve up, fully expecting a rash or something, but when he sees what caused the itching, he freezes up.

That's no rash.

He drops his art supplies, not caring in the least how and where they land, even though he normally is incredibly careful with them and barges into Bucky's room, not bothering to knock.

"Buck!"

"What." Bucky doesn't look up from the screen, where he's watching a new series. He's told Steve so much about it, but there's no head space left for Steve to come up with, or care about, the name of the show.

"Bucky, look!"

Steve climbs up onto Bucky's bed, sitting down in front of him, effectively blocking his view on the screen and shoving his arm into his face.

Bucky makes a disgruntled noise, but looks anyway. As his eyes widen, Steve notices that he's been grinning giddily since he first lay eyes on the lines, appearing on his body, a blooming warmth filling every last corner of his body.

He has a soulmate. He really has a soulmate, against all signs that had him convinced for years that he didn't have one.

Bucky gives him a soft smile and hugs him close to his side.

"I'm happy for you, buddy." He pulls up a pen from his bedside table. "Though you might want to answer that."

Steve looks back at the lines, and for the first time actually realizes what it says. The handwriting is almost illegible, and even the short sentence is littered with mistakes. Still, Steve is pretty sure he understands what it says.

"I don't want to be like him?"

Steve wants to ask the obvious 'Like who?' but that isn't what his soulmate needs. His soulmate who has never written anything on his skin in the last five years. His soulmate who only now broke his silence with a desperate declaration.

He slowly opens the cap of the pen and puts it down against his skin carefully. He's not sure what to write, but he knows that he absolutely needs to write something.

_You don't need to be anyone but yourself._

Nothing happens for a moment.

He knows it's irrational to get this anxious about the few moment it takes, but he is terrified that his soulmate will vanish back into the silence he held for the last years.

He slumps in relief when there's another itching on his arm.

_How?_

Steve's heart aches for his soulmate. He doesn't know them, but he gets the very strong feeling that his soulmate doesn't have much that he could rely on.

He is aware of Bucky's presence, of his solid form against him, his even more solid faith and unshakeable support. He was aware of his mother's love, of his friends support.

He wishes his soulmate would be as lucky as he has the good fortune to be.

_Just do what feels right for you. Care about your own happiness._

_Don't live for other people._

 

Tony wakes with a raging headache and a fuzzy disgusting feeling in his mouth. He has a crick in his neck from his position against the couch - he really couldn't be bothered to climb _onto_ it yesterday, could he? - and the bright light falling through the windows burns his eyes.

And yet on some level, he feels utterly contend. As if something that had been slightly out of alignment inside of him has finally settled into its correct position.

He's not sure how a lonely graduation and a hangover accomplished that feeling, but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

That is, until his gaze falls onto the scribbles on his skin. There's a short moment of pure happiness, followed by deep and utter horror. He jumps up, almost falling over his own feet and races to his bathroom.

He scrubs at his skin until it's red and raw and his own handwriting is gone.

There's nothing he can do about the other, familiar handwriting.

 

When Steve wakes up, there's nothing but his own writing on his skin.

 

There's no note on the following day either. Not in the following week or month.

Steve still doodles on his own skin sometimes, or takes a note. He's been thinking that he doesn't have a soulmate for years, so he got into the habit of not thinking about writing or drawing on his own skin.

And habits are hard to break.

But sometimes he thinks about what he's writing. Sometimes he wants to send his soulmate a message.

_Good morning._

_Good night._

_Got drenched today._

_There are walkers. For goldfish. I mean- what??_

He's not sure what he should feel about the whole thing. On the one hand he's elated that he does actually have a soulmate.

On the other hand, why give him a soulmate after all these years just to have him ignore Steve?

He's stuck in some strange sort of emotional limbo. He doesn't know which way to turn to touch ground.

At some point, Bucky just grabs him and manhandles him first into putting on something else than sofa-chic and then out of their shared flat and into the world. He doesn't say where they are going, what they are going to do, nothing.

"You have to get out of your head, Stevie. I know that this is a frustrating situation, and, as the amazing friend I am, I'm going to help you get out of that head of yours."

That's all Steve gets.

He's pretty sure they aren't going to one of their friends' places. Or if they are, than Bucky is going really out of his way to confuse him.

But he doesn't think so.

 

It turns out Bucky round up everyone they know and ordered them to the park. Considering how competitive his friends are, and sometimes how utterly stupid, it turns out to be a great day. Steve's not quite sure when the last time he had such a fun day was.

They all agree that they should do something like this way more often.

When they head home, Steve bumps Bucky with his shoulder.

"Thanks."

 

Steve is almost asleep, when he feels the persistent itching again. Part of his brain tells him to just ignore it, to go back to sleep.

It's not as if his soulmate goes out of his way to keep in touch with him. Maybe it's time for them to get a taste of their own medicine.

That part is minuscule though and the rest of his mind shouts at him to get up.

Steve scrambles upright and fumbles for the light switch. The lamp flares to life and for a moment he can't look, has to close his eyes against the bright light.

He notices that the itching doesn't go away as it did last time, but continues on and on and on. And the area seems to spread. From the inside of his elbow all the way up to his inner wrist.

He opens his eyes.

The words completely cover his arm and they hurt.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..._

Steve gets a pen out of the drawer of his bedside table, dumping half of its content in the process.

The lines of _'I'm sorry_ 's have covered the whole underarm by now and his soulmate has started to write over the already written words.

Steve writes, in big, clear letters on the palm of his hand.

_Don't be._

Then, slightly smaller, on the back of his hand.

_Whatever happened, I'm here for you._

The writing on his arm stops. A moment later there is the itching on his thigh. He pulls down the blanket, to look at the new words.

_I don't deserve you._

Steve wishes he could crawl through this thing that connects them, get to his soulmate and just hold them close. Show them that they are cared for and that they can be whatever they want to be.

That they deserve things, deserve a close connection to someone who cares for them.

He doesn't know them, but he gets the feeling that they don't really have that much faith in themselves.

_You deserve the world._

 

 

At some point his soulmate starts writing back, even if they aren't drunk or at a low point. Not much, but a little bit each time. He starts making jokes, and riling Steve up and being a hardhead and generally obnoxious ass.

Steve loves it.

There still are those points when his soulmate hits rock bottom and Steve feels incredibly helpless each and every time, because all he can give are words, and they always feel like too little, just not enough.

He wants to be there for his soulmate but he can't.

He once asked, but they shot him down immediately. Didn't want to tell their name, who they are, what they do. Nothing. Doesn't want to meet.

It had hurt.

Steve hadn't picked up a pen for days, not even responding when his soulmate initiated the contact - an incredibly rarity in itself.

Looking back he feels like a giant heel, but he'd probably act the same again, if he were to live through the experience again.

He now knows - or is pretty sure at least, considering everything else he knows about his soulmate - that Steve is not the reason they don't want to meet. It's their own insecurities and doubts.

Steve hopes that one day they are sure enough to have faith in their connection.

 

_Should I get muffins or donuts?_

_Donuts. The answer will always be donuts._

_You haven't lived until you've seen Sam and Clint facing off in a dance off. Drunk. With Natasha refereeing them._

_Sounds like my kinda people._

 

Tony is lying on the floor of his workshop, looking up at the cluttered tables.

He's exhausted. He should probably head back and sleep for three days, but he's still too wired to be able to relax.

He's had an incredible breakthrough with his AI technology. He hasn't told Obie yet, or Pepper or Rhodey. He's not sure why, but somehow he wants to keep it a secret for a little bit longer.

Well, that's not quite true. He yearns to take a pen to his skin and tell his soulmate all about his project, what he's accomplished so far, what he's accomplished _today_. And he would. He doesn't think they would hold it against him, or go nuts over the machines taking over, but...

But.

There aren't that many people who are able to create something like an AI. Almost none. And with the little things that his soulmate already knows about him, it would be all too easy to connect the pieces and find out just who they have the bad luck to be connected to.

Tony doesn't want that.

It's not that he's a bad catch, he knows that. He is a certified genius, he has money and looks and charm and can open doors most people don't even know are there to open.

But he knows that he's exhausting.

You can only bear with him for a limited amount of time.

A soulmate wouldn't have that luxury. Even if they never met, or rarely at least, just knowing who his soulmate was, might be enough to drive them off.

And the chance of the media finding out?

He doesn't even want to imagine.

They wouldn't have a single minute to themselves. It's terrible enough for Tony, who grew up in the limelight, but shove an unsuspecting person into that?

Not even he is such an asshole.

 

His soulmate is hurting.

Tony doesn't know, what to do. He is a mess, he can barely keep himself up, how the hell is he supposed to be the... the support for someone else?

But he knows that he has to do _something_. His soulmate has been there for him whenever he needed them and he's not going to do any less.

He cares, so much that it hurts. But he's only good with numbers. Words, unless they are to charm and deceive, are not his forte.

_Tell me where you are._

 

There's no time, or head space to get nervous. All of his thoughts are directed at the person on the other end of this connection.

It's a small apartment building, the stairs creak and there's a strange odor in the air.

But he doesn't care about that, he only cares about what's at the end of the stairs.

He hurries them up, two at a time, until he's at the right apartment door.

He knocks.

Nothing happens for a moment. Then the door is pulled open.

Tony knows that the man isn't his soulmate. For one, he looks to composed to be the wreck he's been talking with.

And... he just doesn't feel right.

He holds out his hand.

His voice is quiet, subdued, when he introduces himself. "Hey, I'm Sam."

Tony shakes his hand. "Tony." He looks past the man. "Where is-?"

The man – Sam, he corrects himself - just nods and points to one of the doors, not the least bit offended by Tony probably very impolite behavior.

Tony is glad. He really doesn't want to deal with any delays.

He moves past Sam and opens the door slowly. There is a small, crammed bedroom on the other side of the door. A lone figure is huddled on the bed, small, curled into itself, under a blanket. The sound of labored breathing comes from it.

Tony carefully walks to the bed and removing his shoes. He climbs on the bed, sitting beside the figure.

"Hey there. I'm Tony. I..." He swallows. He's afraid to make everything worse. "Would it be alright if I hug you?"

The figure pulls down the blanket and looks up at him. His face is blotchy, his eyes red and swollen. He nods.

Tony scoots over, sliding down on the bed until he's lying next to him, pulling him against his side.

He doesn't know what happened, so he doesn't tell him everything is going to be alright. He just holds him, while he starts crying again, his sobs rocking his whole body.

 

Steve isn't really aware of much, after he gets the phone call. He might have called Sam or Natasha, but he's not sure. Everything seemed a little out of focus, distorted, just not right.

Not real.

Because it couldn't be real.

Bucky couldn't...

But he wasn't. They don't know, he might be missing, but he's not _dead_ , not Bucky.

They'll see. He's not gone. He wouldn't just leave Steve.

Though all the others are dead. It's unlikely that he survived. Maybe there just wasn't anything left of him to be found.

He doesn't know, he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to believe it.

He wants to believe. In Bucky. In his safe return.

He wants to, so badly.

But he's gone and dead and there is no Bucky anymore, no one to bicker with him, to mother hen him, to annoy him and care for him, to drag him on double dates and roller coasters.

No Bucky.

What is Steve supposed to do?

 

Steve slowly comes back to himself. He might have dozed off, or fallen asleep. Or he might just come back from the deep molasses like fog he has dropped in.

There is a warm body in front of him, holding him, strong arms circling around him, running up and down his back in calm movements.

Steve's fingers tighten in the fabric of a shirt that he hasn't been aware he was holding onto before.

The body against his moves a bit.

Steve peeks up and looks into a face that looks slightly familiar, though he can't place it. He gets lost in the dark brown eyes for a moment, wanting to forget his pain.

They look so warm.

"You back?"

It takes a moment to realize the quiet murmur is meant for him.

It takes another moment for the situation to sink in as well.

Steve jerks upright, looking at the stranger in his bed.

He doesn't feel strange, but Steve blames that onto his own jumbled up emotions.

The man sits up as well, attempting to flatten his hair.

He's not very successful.

"Who are you?"

The man sighs quietly and extends his hand.

"Hi, I'm Tony."

Steve doesn't take the offered hand. It might be very impolite, but considering there's a complete stranger in his bed - and he is a little bit confused as to why that doesn't freak him out at all - he thinks he's allowed to be a little impolite.

The man drops his hand. He doesn't look angry or annoyed though. He reaches for a pen on Steve's bedside table. Steve looks on as he sets it against the skin of his arm, not quite comprehending, what is going on.

At least, until an itching starts on his arm and he looks down on it, he can see words appear on his skin, simultaneously as they do on the man's - on Tony's - skin.

_It's nice to finally meet you._

 

They don't talk for several hours. Steve is curled against him, dozing or staring into the distance. Sometimes he gets up and leaves the room.

Tony never follows him.

The sun has long since risen and set again, when Sam comes inside, a redheaded woman at his side. She glances at him but her focus is on Steve. When she sits down next to him, he immediately reaches out to her, clutching her sleeve.

Tony gets up. He gives his number to Sam, telling him that he'll come back tomorrow, but not to hesitate calling him before.

 

He visits Steve almost every day. At some point Steve starts to talk to him, mostly about Bucky. A man Steve has known since childhood, who'd stuck with him ever since they first met, cared for him when he was sick, got him out of trouble at any other time.

A man who had gone to war, to help other people and would never return.

Steve starts getting aggressive at some point in the third week. By the end of it, he shouts at Tony, hurls abuse at Sam and even snaps at Natasha.

Tony stays at home for two days.

He thinks that maybe he shouldn't, but he needs the time. He buries himself in his work and his workshop.

On day three he goes back.

 

Steve starts to get better and Tony stops coming over every day. He writes on his skin every now and then, but old habits die hard. Initiating the contact is nothing that comes easily to him.

He still meets with Steve, at least once, but usually more times.

They don't meet at his apartment though, but go to dinner in small family owned restaurants that Tony knows won't go to the press.

They just talk. Start getting to know each other, as persons instead of notes.

Tony is pretty sure he won't ever forget the first time he made Steve laugh. It might not be some kind of pretty little laugh, but it's honest and Steve and makes a deep warmth curl in his chest.

 

After a while, Tony starts visiting Steve at home again. Steve comes to his house for the first time and Tony can finally introduce his AI, JARVIS.

He might have adored Steve before, but when he listens to his creation and his soulmate talk...

He's not sure. But the feeling inside his chest is probably something more than mere adoration.

 

They find Bucky in a training camp. He's lost an arm and the shine in his eyes.

Steve stops laughing again. He's constantly worried and rarely calms down. At some point he worries himself sick.

When Sam tells Tony about the dressing down Bucky has given him for it, he wishes he could have played fly on the wall.

Somehow Steve's sickness and Bucky trying to take care of him again make things better.

They aren't good, they are far from it, but at least they it's starting to look up.

 

The first time Steve kisses Tony is when he's in the middle of trying to explain space travel.

It's a terribly timed kiss, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

 

Tony gets blown up by his own bomb four months later.

His skin is covered in ink, desperate pleas to come back, to not leave Steve behind as well.

His captors see the ink and refuse to give him anything but a pencil to work with.

 

Tony carves a message with a knife into his skin.

It's useless but Tony hopes against hope.

Steve never reacts.

 

Steve promises that he doesn't believe that Tony is gone. That he is waiting. That he knows that Tony is going to come back.

 

After a month he keeps up a litany of apologies and questions to Tony's whereabouts.

 

After two he starts to write less. He tells him that he's starting to give up.

He starts apologizing right after.

 

When the helicopter appears in the sky, Tony is sure that he is hallucinating.

He doesn't care and shouts up at it anyway.

It's not as if there's anyone around to see him going crazy.

But he's not, he's not crazy, because the helicopter sets down and he can feel the wind of the rotor blades and a figure runs towards him and it's Rhodey, what is Rhodey doing here?

But he doesn't really care, because Rhodey is there and when Tony sags in relief and exhaustion he's there to catch him.

 

When he comes to during transit, Rhodey holds out a pen.

Tony smiles and it's drug addled and strange, but he smiles and he takes the pen and sets it against his skin.

_I'm coming home._

 


End file.
